


The Vines

by stendahls



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, it's sad at first but ends super sweet, what's better than this just guys smoochin dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 00:58:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stendahls/pseuds/stendahls
Summary: It is true that elves can die of a broken heart, but Bard is determined to stop that from happening.





	The Vines

Thranduil knew that the face of love was the face of death.

Love had left him wounded in more ways than one. Love left him lying on his deathbed after his wife had laid on hers. Love had ruined even the most powerful of men right before his eyes. It had taken his kin and torn them to shreds, ripping up their insides until their hearts could not stand the torment, and they ceased to beat from sheer exhaustion.

These were the thoughts that rattled around his head as he sat in his tent after the battle at Dale. He leaned back in his chair, gently swirling in his ornate glass the wine he was using to drown the ache in his chest. He had lost many of his kin that day. He had lost his son, who went to find his own way in the world, his eager heart hoping for more adventure. He had lost a woman he thought of almost as a daughter, who had given her heart to a mortal, and now faced death by grief as her punishment. He had lost many allies and friends, who had bravely given their lives on the battlefield, defending their world against darkness right until the very end.

He was pulled from his mourning as Bard entered his tent, who knocked lightly on a pole but let himself in before any permission could be granted. The disrespect slightly annoyed Thranduil, but then again, so did most things about mortals.

“Hello! The city folk are celebrating tonight in the town hall, it’s quite run down but we have caskets of ale to be opened, and we may be able to fix the place up to be half decent by party time. Would you care to join us?” Bard’s voice was jovial yet tired. It was clear the events of the day weighed heavily on his mind, but his joy of victory outweighed the exhaustion of things lost.

Thranduil’s response was succinct and serious, “No, I have no time to be mingling amongst the rabble.” He spoke with finality, hoping to end the interaction as quickly as possible, but the man in front of him was as persistent as he was optimistic.

He made no attempt to hide the hurt in his voice as he replied, “Why do you think yourself so above the common man? These men placed their lives on the line to keep us alive, yet you treat them like dirt beneath your heel. It is unbefitting of a king to be so cruel.”

“It is unbefitting of a king to have such low standards. I will not be joining you. Tell your subjects what you like, make up some fairy story for my absence if you wish, but I have kingly duties to perform that I will not leave unattended in favor of entertaining those below me,” He drained his glass after finishing his sentence. He stood up, turning away from the man who was rapidly becoming more intruder than visitor, to refill his glass from the wine bottle that sat on a beautifully carved table. He lightly traced his finger along the grain, avoiding eye contact in the silence as Bard formulated his response.

His response was the last thing Thranduil had expected to hear.

“Are you alright?”

The elf froze. What a strange question. Moments passed in silence as he tried to think of an answer. How does one respond to such a question? He was not alright in the slightest, he felt so much heartbreak at recent events that he feared for his own life, and the fear for his life only increased the heartbreak, trapping him in a terrifying loop of existential pain. How could he explain that to a mortal? How could he explain the pain that threatened to squeeze his heart until it literally burst? And what entitlement, if any, did this man have to an answer? Before he could control himself, he found himself speaking in open honesty, a sullen “No,” slipping from his lips before he had the thought to stop it. He quickly backtracked, “But what right do you have to ask me such a question? What answer do you seek?”

For every drop of accusation that dripped from Thranduil’s voice, a drop of concern dripped from Bard’s, “I seek only honesty.” He paused, hesitating as he seemed to contemplate how much of his own honesty to provide. “I know what it looks like when people use anger to hide their own pain, and I don’t like to see those I care about hurt. I seek to help, if at all possible.”

He was in awe of this man and his unwavering kindness. For the first time in a while, Thranduil’s heart clenched around something other than pain and fear. A small glowing vine of affection wrapped itself around his heart, winding it’s way into the cracks, tentatively filling the spaces between. It threatened to be crushed with every beat, but still it persisted. This was not the first emergence of this particular vine. The vine had come from Bard several times before, it reached out from where it grew in every branch of friendliness and open offer of support the mortal man extended. Thranduil cherished that vine, he _loved_ that vine, it grew buds in his heart that threatened to blossom into beautiful flowers he had not felt in centuries, and the fluttering insects it attracted grazed his stomach with every flutter of their delicate wings. He feared the vine and all that it brought to him. The temptation of love was a danger he could not afford to entertain. The last thing he needed was another person to lose.

But Bard made it so difficult to resist. “My apologies if I stepped out of line. I just...I recognize that loss in your eyes. I fear I felt it too when my wife passed, and it is a horrible pain to suffer alone.”

The elven king turned to face him, “You lost your wife?” He asked, a slight admiration creeping into his voice, “You...survived?”

Bard looked quizzical and remorseful all at once as he replied, “Aye, why wouldn’t I? I have children to care for, ‘tis not like I had much choice but to continue.”

“The survival of heartbreak is not something so easily done by my kind. I admire your strength,” he, against his better instinct, nervously averted his gaze in a moment of vulnerability, “I fear it is a strength I do not share.”

“So...it is true then? Elves really can perish from a broken heart?”

Thranduil nodded solemnly. “‘Tis true, and...well…” his instincts screamed at him to end the conversation, to command the other man out of his tent, to hide himself behind solitude and magic as he had always done, but the aching of his lonesome heart muffled the noise beneath it’s own mournful beat, “I fear I find myself in grave danger currently. It is some cruel joke,” He let out a bitter chuckle, “that the fear of death makes the heart break faster.” He took a long sip from his glass of wine, attempting to drown out the adrenaline that coursed through his veins from his own vulnerability. He felt like an animal caught in a snare, fearing the predator yet loving the rope.

Bard moved closer, striding forward with confidence until he stood so close Thranduil could feel his warmth near him. “I’m sorry, truly. But I would not see you die, not if I can help it. There has been too much death as of late for me to allow one more.” He slowly reached out and placed a hand on his fellow kings shoulder. Thranduil felt him tense at the contact, obviously fearing a negative reaction.

But Thranduil thrived in that contact. The vine flowed from Bard’s fingers, digging it’s way through the elf’s muscles, wrapping around his bones, twirling through his ribcage until it came to rest deep inside his chest. He no longer cared to fight it off. He melted into the touch, reaching his hand up and wrapping it around Bard’s. He heard the other man let out a soft gasp, and he blushed at the sound. Love was the enemy, yes, but by the gods it was a release. It was a drug, an infectious coping mechanism, not healthy in the long run but irresistible in the moment. He had no idea if the sentiment was mutual, although he suspected it was from the way Bard had blushed and fidgeted during their previous conversations, but even a one-sided affair was an intoxication he no longer had the willpower to resist. With all love properly gone from his life he guiltily gave in to his craving for more.

He turned to look over his shoulder, finding the other man blushing as they made eye contact. It lingered for moments before the mortal man, so incapable of silence, spoke hesitant and low, “I’m here for whatever you need...be it mental or...physical.”

The implication in his words was clear, and Thranduil took the offer and turned it into action. He turned around to fully face Bard and gently took his face in his hands, pressing a swift and short kiss to his lips. It was gentle and fleeting and made his chest pound. Much to his relief, Bard quickly closed the gap again, and they shared a much longer, more passionate kiss. They looked into each other’s eyes as they pulled apart a second time, and both of them shared a look of exhausted love that came only from the unique burdens they shared. Thranduil kissed him again, and again, and again, clutching him like the lifeline he was.

Kiss after countless kiss quickly grew passionate, but just as the human king’s hands had started drifting to his belt buckle, Thranduil grabbed his hands and made him stop. He shook his head gently, “That isn’t what we need, and it’s not what I want,” he pressed his forehead to Bard’s as he whispered, “I am a selfish man, and I fear I want more than your body, I want all of you.” He gently kissed him before he continued, his voice deep with sadness, “What do you see in me that makes me worthy of your kindness?” It was a question that would have sounded conceited were it not for it’s solemn sincerity. “I have been less than kind to you and yours.”

Bard chuckled and gave a slight smile, “Aye, but you and I have more in common than you think. I am no stranger to those who hide their vulnerability behind apathy, and annoying as you may be,” he said with a teasing yet gentle tone, “you have a heart so full of love you risk your life for it. Try as you might to fill your life with cruelty you so rarely succeed at it.”

“It is weakness,” he admitted.

“It is strength,” he corrected.

Thranduil pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, so soft and filled with compassion even for a miserable soul such as himself. Looking into the eyes of love with a mortal was the same as looking into the eyes of death itself.

If this was the face of death, then he would gladly succumb to it, for it’s beauty was too much to resist.


End file.
